


A Love Story, Unwritten

by Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels, Because Angel!Enjolras is a great thing, M/M, and I had to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 03:59:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1331095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/pseuds/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he first descended to earth, it was Paris in1832, and he was going to bring equality to the streets. He was so...hopeful, then. Idealistic. He championed liberty and disdained emotions because  love was a frivolity that only few---namely, Marius---would find happiness in, when so many starved in the streets.<br/>(He knew better now. He knew no one really chose to fall in love, it snuck up behind a person and slit their throats whilst they slept.)<br/>An Angel!Enjolras AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Love Story, Unwritten

 

 

There was one curious race of man; the revolutionaries, those who saw how awful the world as and still saw the beauty—those who saw the world and wanted to change it; those who wanted a better place, those who still thought they could make it a better place. And it were those souls, those untiring, precious souls, who were the most beautiful out of them all.

He surrounded himself with them, when he first descended from heaven to walk amongst humanity; they had all the brightness of Romantics, all the self righteousness of his angelic brethren, and all the drive to make the world a better place. It was glorious; it was perfect. With this group, with these blessed groups, perhaps they could bring down the monarchy—

(Somewhere inside of him the angel in him wept; they were humans too, and good ones, but they had to die. For the good of the rest, so that the populous might eat and live as they do, the bourgeoisie.)

—And bring a republic to the people. It was heady, it was intoxicating; his grace overflowed with the pleasure of simply having so many hopes, so much happiness pinned onto him and his group of friends— _Les Amis de L’ABC_ , and yes, the pun was intentional—he felt unstoppable. Together, they would bring happiness, it was impossible not to win.

Then he met Grantaire. His soul was a dark bottle-green, nearly black. It wasn’t too hard to tell why—The man was a drunkard, and a cynic at that. He didn’t have time to speak with the likes of him, not someone with an arguably beautiful, wary soul who wouldn’t even _try_ —!

(If he looked hard, harder than he did, he could’ve seen an artist in Grantaire, seen the idealist, so very very _afraid_ to hope that just this once something good could happen. But he was young and rash, and forgot that humans were fickle things with hopes and dreams that could be so easily crushed.)

So he kept away. He wouldn’t cast Grantaire out; everyone was welcome to help the revolution, despite whether or not they actually would. He had so much potential; if Grantaire would only try he could be as good as the rest of them. But he never did. And that was his downfall, or so Enjolras believed.

But worship was being turned in his direction; wordless prayers clinging to his grace and if he thought leading the people was intoxicating, this was worse than any wine, or opium den could be, and he was addicted. _Apollo_ , the slurred prayers would whisper, and he wanted to protest but couldn’t. He was no god, just a warrior. But this person didn’t seem to know that.

(He pretended that he didn’t know where the prayers came from, that he didn’t see Grantaire’s eyes from his corner of the bar as he spoke; mocking words but loving eyes. It frightened him, the affection, the revere in which he was held. He wasn’t his father. He was no god.)

 

He thought the Barrière du Maine would be Grantaire’s saving grace. He was wild, yes, but his soul glinted like emeralds as he spoke then, insecure but sure. His heart swelled then—No. His grace, his _grace_ , it had to be his grace. When had he begun to equate his grace with his heart, the organ so unbearably human, so much of what he could not be?

(He saw the signs wrong then; if only his affliction could have been as normal as falling, but he was no normal sort of angel, he never had been. No, this was far worse than simply becoming human; he might have welcomed that. This he never could—it was against his nature, it should not have existed.)

He bade himself to forget about his fears, and followed Grantaire. He couldn’t be sure, despite his hopes. Grantaire had a tendency to disappoint.

And disappoint he did; he spent the afternoon playing dominoes instead of speaking on the revolution. He couldn’t even muster up the ability to be angry—of _course_ it was all a joke to Grantaire. He believed in nothing! He couldn’t.

( _“I believe in you,”_ still echoed in his ears.)

Never mind that people were dying in the streets, never mind that the revolution might actually help someone, never mind that they might be victorious. Grantaire couldn’t believe that they would ever succeed.

(And for some reason that lead to a feeling of loneliness instead of outrage, and it sunk deeper and deeper into his chest. Grantaire couldn’t believe in them. Grantaire wouldn’t believe in them.)

 

It was then that Marius decided to fall in love.

(He knew better now, that no one really chose to fall in love, it snuck up behind a person and slit their throats whilst they slept.)

For weeks, he would talk about nothing but “His Ursula”, until eventually he didn’t show up at all. That was good, he could almost believe, but they had lost another man.

He began to question how many would truly stay with their fight for liberty, or how many would stay at home, in comfortable beds with their wives. He wondered if perhaps, Grantaire was correct. That no one would join their fight, if it meant they could keep their lives. That they were foolish schoolboys. That they wouldn’t accomplish anything. He felt sick.

But then general Lamarque died, and if the revolution could only rise at one point in time, this was it. Marius joined them again, and the café Musain would be the backdrop to freedom. This was their chance! The barricades rose, and they waited with baited breath, the moments they waited for were this. He traded solemn embraces with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, should they not come out of it alive. He hoped they did; that Combeferre might become a doctor like he should, and Courfeyrac might—well, do whatever it was that Courfeyrac did. Hopefully he wouldn’t break any young girls’ hearts, they didn’t deserve that.

Then the fight broke out, and all joy was lost. Grantaire, Grantaire the damned man, where could he be—

(His heart thumped wildly in his chest, but Grantaire was unhurt, as his friends died around him.)

Bahorel was the first to die, despite all his experience, despite everything. Enjolras was reminded, with horror, that all of his friends were human. He had known, of course he had known, but it had never truly registered and now he had lead them all to their deaths—they were practically schoolchildren still, and he brought them to die.

Jehan—Jehan Prouvaire the poet, dear god, he was a _poet_ —died behind enemy lines and he, Enjolras the cruel, Enjolras the idiot, gave away their only bargaining chip to an unknown man. His soul was the sweetest of all, if a little overbearing. Lilac and sugary, snuffed out alone without his friends, dying for a cause—For _Enjolras’s cause._

The girl, Marius’s friend; the one who he saw on occasion looking for Pontmercy outside of the Musain; she too, died. There was no glory in this battle, as he had once believed. Only death. National guardsmen and and his friends, side by side in the rubble of the barricade. Bodies strewn with blood spattering the streets. Everything he had believed in, everything he might’ve loved, died around him. The night was his solace, and he dug a little deeper through his grace to feel the rush of love clouding through his body. It was wrong, he shouldn’t do it; but it felt so good whereas everything else only held sorrow.

(Perhaps it was then when he realized, surrounded by pleasant thoughts of Grantaire’s adoration, but he didn’t think so. No, that wouldn’t come until the day after, or perhaps the years of solitude afterward. He wasn’t quite sure—It was a slow realization of realizing that he had realized it.)

Dawn broke, and to his horror—( _And his relief, though he wouldn’t admit it he would never admit it_ )—Grantaire slept. Slept in a drunken haze as he always did. _(But that was good, that was so good Grantaire would be okay not everyone would die he could see another day he would live—_ ) They couldn’t win, but they would go down fighting; if only they had the bullets, and the guns. But they didn’t. The powder had been damaged, it had rained overnight. But the fallen corpses still had gunpowder, ammunition, pistols. Little Gavroche, the _gamin_ , volunteered to fetch them, and despite their protests he did; he was shot in the middle of mocking the guardsmen.  

They killed a child. A little boy. Enjolras felt sick as he watched the reaper take him away, Courfeyrac taking the poor bloodied body as the soul went the opposite direction. Heaven would be exceptionally kind to him; it always was to those who died too young. They would pay.

He pushed all that he had into destroying them, in firing and firing and firing, but it was all useless. His friends died by his side. He retreated into the café. The café Musain, how fitting that he should fail here; here where he dreamt so fully and so truthfully. The lack of his wings fitting upon his spine ached; he couldn’t remember the last time they had done so. This was it. His time was up.

(Combeferre and Courfeyrac died in front of him, but he lived. So many of his friends, dead before him…He had done this. If he hadn’t come, they could’ve _survived_ —Oh, if only they could’ve survived.

Somewhere, Combeferre’s mother wept. As did Courfeyrac’s. They thought no one could hear their cries; Enjolras did.)

He gripped his flag tight in his fist, staring at the guardsmen. They couldn’t take that away from him, it was impossible. He had failed, but he would greet his angelic siblings with flag in hand and grim features upon his face. He would find his friends in death, and perhaps, even, he might watch the rest continue to live.

(He might watch Grantaire continue to live.)

He was ready to die, it shouldn’t frighten him. He would simply be with his father and brethren again. Back where he belonged; yet…Why did he feel so alone? Stared down by enemies, the last dawn he would ever see behind him and his friends dead at his feet. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

( _He didn’t want to die alone. Nobody should have to die alone.)_

He took a breath; then another one. Still, no shots. Then—

“ _Vive La Republique!_ I am one of them.” Grantaire.

(No no no no no That was not supposed to happen that was never supposed to happen—Grantaire was supposed to live, He was supposed to live and do whatever he did whatever he did that brought passion and fire and flame to Enjolras’s chest and continue to love so beautifully—He loved so unfortunately beautifully—)

“Finish us both with one blow.” Then, more quietly, to him and him alone “Do you permit it?”

His hand found Grantaire’s, pressing them close together.

_(I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry you weren’t supposed to die—)_

 

*

 

Silence.

Unfortunate, awful silence. His brothers and sisters had always been quiet beings and he never thought it would bother him before; he used to rejoice in the quiet affections they did show, never needing a physical voice to express but instead simply enjoying the gentle press of grace against grace, of wings entangling together.

But he couldn’t shake the memories of Courfeyrac’s boisterous laugh, of Prouvaire speaking of poetry with Combeferre; Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel and Feuilly drinking merrily and Marius’s ramblings on his lady-love.

(Sometimes, when his grace grew weak with fatigue and he laid down to rest, he could have sworn he heard Grantaire mocking and eloquent, as he always was. He tried not to think on those nights; he tried not to weep on those nights.)

Ever since he returned he had searched for his friends, but to no avail. They were nowhere; he spent decades mourning.

Then he got another assignment. A guardian angel to a child, and he was so afraid, so very afraid of screwing up again, of leading this poor child to his death like he did all of the other humans he knew. Still, he did it, descending to earth in the late 20th century—had it already been that long since his friends had died?

(He tried not to flinch when he heard the last name, because fate was trying to punish him from some way, he was sure. _Grantaire_ , what was the chance? It wasn’t too common a last name, he knew, but it certainly wasn’t too uncommon either.)

His charge was little and pink, as most human children were. Asleep in blue swaddling clothes, he was perfect and delicate in Enjolras’s eyes; too easily broken.  Awake, however, he never stopped crying (or shall he say screaming), until he finally got the nerve to hush him and hold him himself.

The boy’s parents couldn’t see him, yes, but the boy, René, could. He was so clever, for a child, and Enjolras figured that the child wouldn’t be able to remember anyway. He held him clumsily, unused to delicate acts such as holding children. To his surprise, he stopped screaming almost immediately, and the child’s poor parent’s got some well needed rest.

He held him for the entire night; angels needed far less sleep than humans, and no need for sustenance at all. He was…pleasingly soft. He could get used to doing so, he could get used to protecting him. He would have to, he mused.  He would stay with the boy for the rest of his life, which hopefully would be longer than his namesake’s.

(What _would_ be longer than his namesake’s.  Enjolras wouldn’t allow any less.)

René grew and grew, and though Enjolras tried to keep himself carefully invisible it always seemed like he _knew_. He stared at where Enjolras stood with confused and determined eyes, and though he should have only been able to see straight through him, he did that more often then he should.

Perhaps he should pretend to be an imaginary friend, he sometimes wondered. Human children often had that sort of companionship, didn’t they? René didn’t have many friends, and he deserved them. Maybe afterwards, René would forget about him, and Enjolras wouldn’t have to deal with the hallowing feelings that stirred inside him, because René didn’t just have Grantaire’s last name. He had his _soul_. It spun underneath his skin, bottle green yet more akin to emeralds, more beautiful than Enjolras had ever remembered his soul to be.

René’s father worried him, as did his mother’s failing health. He always needed to be better at something for his father, be it maths or being polite or being grateful. That angered him; Grantaire— _René_ was a child, he was supposed mocking and rude and not perfect at everything. He drew the best pictures in his class, and he had a far better vocabulary than all the rest of the first-graders. But Monsieur Grantaire ( _Who didn’t deserve that name_ ) wouldn’t say that, couldn’t see that.

So Enjolras told René himself. He sung to him as he slept, Enochian words that no human could form. And one morning, he simply showed himself to him, took off the strain on his grace and showed himself to him. “Hello, Monsieur René,” he greeted, as kindly as he could. “I’m your imaginary friend.”

“No you’re not.”

“What?” He had not expected that, of all reactions. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, it’s a bit strange for imaginary friends to just go up and introduce themselves as imaginary.”

“I’m a strange imaginary friend,” He countered. “I’m called Enjolras.”

René scrunched up his nose. “That’s a weird name.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yeah, it _is_.” He protested. “and I’m René. Just René, not Monsieur René. But,” he leaned in conspiratorially. “Since we’re friends now, you can call me R.”

“R?” He tried to ignore the memories that came with it—He was sometimes called R, too.

“Uhuh! It’s the first letter of my name, see?” He beamed, one tooth missing and freckles across his crooked nose and cheeks. “And, mama says its somethin’ called a—a—lun? Mun?”

“Pun.”

“Yeah, that. Because our last name sounds like _Grand R_. So, you can call me R!”

“Alright,” He nodded “ _R_.”

“Isn’t it cool? I think so. I’ve never had a nickname before.” He paused. “Or an imaginary friend before, either. Or any friend, to tell the truth. Mummy says I should tell the truth more. I don’t think so.”

“It’s good not to lie.” He pointed out.

“Well, _yeah,_ but lying makes you sound cooler. And be cooler. Pirates lie all the time; I wanna be a pirate.”

“Why do you want to be a pirate?” Enjolras was genuinely confused at that. Why on earth would a child want to be like any of the pirates he remembered; murdering plunderers who killed  innocents and stole.

R seemed to be confused on why that question was even asked. “Everyone likes pirates! They’re cool. They don’t have bedtimes or any rules at all and pirates don’t have to be good at stupid _math_ or even know how to spell school, because they’ve never gone to school, and yet they’re still always happy and have friends and—and—“

“But they don’t have mothers,” He said. “Or bedtime stories.”

He seemed to deflate a bit. “Yeah, I guess.” he perked up, remembering something. “Is it you, then?”

“I—beg your pardon?”

R mumbled something about him talking like a grownup before repeating himself. “Is it you? Who sings?”

“Ah, yes,” If a slight flush graced Enjolras’s features, well, nobody had to know.

He appeared shyer, now. “You’re really good.”

Enjolras was hardly the best musician in the garrison, and most definitely didn’t pride himself on the vague attempts of a melody he sang as a lullaby, and turned bright red at that. This was the only compliment he had ever received on his mostly subpar singing ability. “Well thank you, R.”

“Will you sing for me every night? Forever?”

He hesitated; it would be harder when he got older, to stick to his word and sing without him knowing. But—He was looking at him with those eyes and how could he say no? “Of course.” And Enjolras always kept his word.

(In 1832, he thought that he was Falling. The truth was, he was learning to love---maybe even _falling_ in love.)

 

*

R’s Mother died three months after his seventh birthday. Cancer. There was nothing he could do—Enjolras could’ve gotten rid of the tumor, maybe, but it would’ve just came back stronger and  quicker and worse than before. Her suffering was done, finally. It was her time to go; she was at peace.

Still, that did nothing to stop R shouting and screaming and crying about how unfair it was. His father hit him to shut him up; it was the first time Enjolras had seen someone hit their own progeny. Enjolras held him, shushing the poor sobbing boy as he planned revenge. Oh, and revenge there would be. R was a _child_.

(Enjolras wouldn’t let anything happen to him, not this time.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> So...yeah. That was probably the longest oneshot I've written in one day. That's what happens, I guess, when you're shot through the heart with a plotbunny. Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed it and are having a great day. Any feedback is, of course, highly welcomed.


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